too early for goodbye
by coffee-stained lips
Summary: He remembers. / Artie&Quinn. Oneshot.


**a/n: Okay, so, what loyal Quartie fan didn't squeal just a little at "The Purple Piano Project"? I know I did. I really think this, plus all the hype about Kevin wanting Quartie, could be foreshadowing - sure, Quick's being brought back, which I'm happy about (closure is needed in that relationship still), but it doesn't necessarily mean we should give up hope. Either RIB have the right idea at last, or they're being complete idiots per usual. I think, though, we have a shot now. So, keep hope alive, Quartie friends!**

_"I miss her."_

He remembers.

He remembers a girl with scrunchies fastening her corn silk hair into pigtails, her laugh bubbly and wild. He remembers those eyes of such mesmerizing hazel, how they twinkled when that little giggle of hers slipped through pink lips, upturned in a smile. He remembers how he loved her, how they romped and wrestled and played pretend; he remembers how they did cannonballs in the local swimming pool, how they pelted each other with snowballs in the dead of winter, how they hid under blanket forts and told ghost stories.

He likes to remember.

He sees her now, hair chopped to just below her ears, scraggly and bubblegum pink. The smoke coils around her head like a gray serpent, slithering across her sunken face and delving into the cracks of her frown lines. Her lips fit around the cigarette perfectly, like they were manufactured to curl around the stick with such zeal, and her eyes smolder; the hazel is gone, replaced by lackluster green.

He wonders where she disappeared to. This isn't the girl he remembers – it's only a distorted copy, he's sure. She's somewhere, caged and trapped and hungry for warmth, behind the bars of this girl's ribcage. This girl, who isn't Quinn Fabray.

He remembers a girl with the longest hair and the pinkest smirk, her long toned legs framed by a too-short skirt and tight-fitting top, the WMHS emblem emblazoned on her chest with mock pride. He remembers her sauntering down the hall, hair cruelly confined to a ponytail, eyes ablaze with desire. He remembers the way she looked at him – or didn't look at him: like he wasn't worth it, like he was below her. Maybe he was. He was wheelchair-bound, four-eyed, and had a passion for things like _Star Wars_ and white rappers. Certainly imperfect. And Quinn Fabray, Head Cheerio, girlfriend of quarterback Finn Hudson, made perfect seem like an insult. She was ethereal.

She slumps against the wall now, bony fingers delicately handling the Virginia Slim; the ashes flutter from the tip, down to the ground, and catching on her skirt. They're unnoticeable against the dreary gray of the skirt and black fishnet stockings.

He thinks of Tina watching her; but Tina is nothing like this Quinn imposter. Tina is sweet and shy; Tina smiles; Tina cares. This wannabe wants nothing of the sort – she wants only the cigarettes tucked into her socks and the solitude of underneath the bleachers, where no one comes unless they're sick or broken or lonely.

He fears she may be all of the above.

It's easy to know how it started: he remembers a girl in a lovely little sundress, her bump growing bigger by the day. He remembers the soft silken hair draped along her back, framing her petite pale face and the hazel orbs inside of them. They're wild, her eyes: dancing and weeping. They're exhausted eyes, tired of the tears squirted out of them and the sight of realities too horrible to face. Her hands are shaky, splayed over her stomach; she smiles rarely, only when someone can take her away from the pain.

He thinks she may be his favorite girl because with this girl, he remembers a soft voice unleashed, singing with her in a ballad no other ears got to hear; he remembers her hand at his back, comforting and caring, the touch maternal and welcomed; he remembers their hands at each other's hips, dancing and twirling to the beat of the music. He remembers a girl just wanting to be happy; he remembers a girl who he could make happy.

But that girl is forever gone, whisked away with a pink blanket. She's been taken and hidden, lost behind lust and mascara, thin pink hair and nicotine snacks. He misses her. She was once beautiful, once amazing; once upon a time, he loved her, and once upon a time she could've loved him.

She turns her head, and he knows she sees him. Her body stiffens, and her fingers release their tight hold on the cigarette. No one says a word, not her, not him. It's merely a meeting of eyes, baby blue on steel green, before a sad smile reminiscent of old times covers the scowl; but it's gone too fast and the cigarette is crushed between rubber and gravel, and then somehow she's slipped away again, slipped through his fingers.

He sighs; she's always been good at running away, and he's just not fast enough to catch her.

**a/n: please don't favorite without reviewing, please & thank you :)**


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